


Green

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, BDSM, Cunnilingus, Dom!Moriarty, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, F/F, Fem!Mormor, Frottage, Genderswap, Hurt/Comfort, Kinbaku, Rope Bondage, Sub!Moran, Tea, fem!Moran, fem!Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-01
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2344940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a three month separation, Moriarty and Moran reconnect through tea and rope. Genderswap. Fem!Mormor. Rope bondage. Dom/sub established relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Seb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my AU, Seb works at a London tea shop when she's between jobs.

Seb checked the exits. She scanned the lobby. She sipped her drink. _Flick. Flick. Flick._

The wheel of the cigarette lighter cut into her thumb. Even if she had noticed the blood, she wouldn’t have cared.

She checked the exits. She scanned the lobby. She sipped her drink. _Flick. Flick. Flick._

The job was over. By now, she should be checking her bank account and checking into a holiday destination that featured the words ‘exclusive,’ ‘secluded,’ and ‘luxury’ in its advertisement.

She was doing neither: she was nursing a pint at ten o’clock in the morning in an unexceptional hotel bar.

She checked the exits. She scanned the lobby. She sipped her drink. _Flick. Flick. Flick._

The long job was over. Three months underground—on two occasions, literally. Now she was a burrow-dwelling creature thrust into daylight. She felt, at once, restless and leaden, silently squirming under a perpetual urban neon sun, yet reluctant to abandon her barstool-cum-sanctuary.

She checked the exits. She scanned the lobby. She sipped her drink. _Flick. Flick. Flick._

Something brushed her hand. She reached for her knife.

A drink appeared: fizzy with a cherry. She tied the cherry stem in a knot with her tongue. The business card under the glass was blank. She turned it over and read the unfamiliar address.

Seb grabbed her bag. She headed for the exit and wondered—not for the first time—how the most evil woman in the world came to have the elegant penmanship of a retired schoolmistress.

* * *

The gate closed and locked behind Seb with a solemn _click-click_. Passing through tall hedges, she was transported into another world, a lush green Eden. She followed a stone path to a tea house in the distance, breathing in the cool, moist air and listening to the trickle of flowing water and twitter of birds.

For the first time in months, she didn’t look over her shoulder.

A small bridge spanned a cascading stream connecting two ponds. In the courtyard of the tea house, Seb dropped her bag, stripped, and donned the clothes laid out for her. She was fumbling with the sash at her waist when she felt her. She looked over her shoulder and smiled.

Neither woman spoke. Small, strong hands tied, straightened, and adjusted Seb's garments. Then, in a flurry of green silk, she was gone.

Seb sat on a bench and looked up at the sky. _It must be nearly noon._ She waited for her host.

_Host._

Odd word for the woman that was her employer, her lover, her bane, her salvation. Her reason for getting up in the morning and not getting up in the morning. The centre of her world.

Her _Master_.

Seb preferred the masculine term. ‘Mistress’ did no justice to the green-eyed monster-woman. Her control was not mysterious or fickle, it was frank and sincere and the one constant in Seb’s life since a fateful trip to the loo ten years ago. But Seb had been her own master for three months, and now she was tired. Her shoulders slumped.

Her host appeared. They greeted each other in silence. Seb washed her hands at the stone fountain. She slipped off her sandals at the entrance to the tea room. She closed the door and sat on her knees on the mat nearest the alcove. She adjusted her clothing. Her host appeared from the other entrance. They smiled at each other.

“Welcome.”

“Thank you.”

Seb studied her host’s garment. At a distance, it was a uniform green, but closer inspection revealed a tangle of thinly-embroidered gold and silver serpents. Seb  turned her head toward the alcove. The hanging scroll bore no calligraphy or seasonal landscape. If she squinted she could make out the vague silhouette of a resting tiger in an Impressionist-style arrangement of red-brown dots.

It was _peculiar._ “Scroll is...,” Seb began hesitantly.

“I took a class!”

Seb stifled a laugh. “In what? Finger-painting with blood?”

“It isn’t _my_ blood.”

Seb did not contain the laugh this time. _Christ, she’s cracked._ She stared and, finally, said:

“It’s... _intriguing_.”

Her host smiled. They moved onto the meal, exchanging a few polite words. Then Seb returned to the waiting area. A bell sounded, and Seb washed her hands again. Back in the room, Seb examined the utensils and asked questions about their origins. A single winding branch in a vase had replaced the scroll in the alcove. Seb asked about it also, about everything, down to the bell that had summoned her. Her host answered her inquiries in a quiet tone. Then she prepared a thick tea.

Seb took the bowl offered, rotated it, sipped, and said:

“Excellent. Thank you.”

It _was_ excellent, a warm green liquid. It looked, smelled, and tasted of the earth.

Seb drained the bowl and then examined it. She handed it back to her host, who then cleaned the utensils and left the room. She returned with a tray of sweets and made more tea, this time of a thinner consistency. She handed Seb a bowl and then said in a business tone:

“So, the job.”

Seb gave an account of the last three months. Her host asked a question or two, but, overall, Seb sensed that she was feeding data, piece by piece, into a supercomputer that was analysing and synthesizing the information in ways that she herself would never comprehend nor be able to replicate.

When Seb finished, her host nodded. “Well done." The last of the tea was gone.

As her host cleaned the utensils, Seb remarked casually, “I read about [Litvinenko](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poisoning_of_Alexander_Litvinenko).”

The woman smiled. “He won’t be pinching anyone’s bottom again, will he?”

Seb chuckled. “No, not since someone put polonium-210 in his teapot.”

“I visited him in hospital, just to remind him what happens to naughty boys that can’t keep their hands to themselves when they’re in a tea shop.”

“What did he say?”

“Mmphfph. His lips had fallen off by then.” She shrugged and cast a soft, flirty smile at Seb.

Seb laughed and shook her head. “Radiation poisoning is a bitch.”

“Takes one...,” her host gave the bowl a final wipe and looked up at Seb with raised eyebrows, “...to know one.”

As they smiled at each other, Seb felt the crackle of knowing and being known. _Christ, I love you, you madwoman._

“So?” asked Seb after a moment, feeling a slight pang. She would once again be left to her own thoughts, her own devices, that is, her own demons. Just like on the barstool, she was reluctant to abandon this space, this sanctuary.

“Feeling better?”

Seb nodded.

“Want to feel even _better_?” Her host pulled a small piece of jute rope from her long sleeve and caressed it from end to end.

Seb’s mouth went dry.

“Oh, God, yes,” she croaked.

* * *

The pair separated when they reached a small edifice further along the stone path from the tea house. Seb slipped into the thin-strapped, light cotton dress that awaited her. She knelt on the floor in the middle of the room, which contained a large bamboo chest; a tight-lidded, plastic-lined rubbish bin; and a pile of pillows and neatly-folded blankets.

Seb waited.

Her Master—for now Seb would call her what she preferred—appeared in a white vest and jeans that hung loosely on her tiny frame; the cuffs of the jeans had been rolled many times to reveal toenails painted black with white skulls.

“Those are my clothes. Miss me?” asked Seb.

“They were lying around the flat, and they’re comfortable.” The tone invited no further needling. Her Master circled her.

Seb smirked but said nothing. _Sentiment._ She studied the bare ceiling. “Not planning to suspend me like a prawn?”

“No, and I’m not planning to invite a busload of tourists and charge admission. Disappointed?” Seb shook her head. Her Master continued, peevishly, “If you want your tits tied off like water balloons or clothespins on your tongue, let me know now, I can oblige.”

Seb frowned. _Christ, she needs this as much as I do._

Her Master squat on her toes, knees out. She grabbed Seb’s chin hard so that they were eye-to-eye.

“Alright. Safe word?”

“Sherlock.”

“Perfect. She spoils my fun out there.” Her Master gestured to the world outside the door. “No reason why she shouldn’t in here, too.” Her tone cooled to ice. “Mine.”

Seb pulled the dress over her knees. “Yours,” she answered. She trembled as her Master flipped the lid of the chest and removed the coiled rope. 

* * *

“Shouldn’t you be sinking into subspace?”

Seb tugged. The ropes gave way.

“Difficult when you use knots you learned in Girl Guides.”

Seb wanted to sink, she _ached_ to sink, but that didn’t mean she would—or should—make it _easy_ for her Master. She would _submit_ , with eyes wide open, not cower.

Her Master growled. She stood up and circled Seb again, smacking the rope against the floor.

_Whack! Whack! Whack!_

“You are, by far, the mouthiest sub I’ve ever had the misfortune to dominate!”

“I’m your only sub, Boss.”

“Nonsense. I’ve had scores!”

“If they never get up off the ground, they aren’t subs, Boss, they’re _victims_.”

_Whack! Whack! Whack!_

“My aftercare is exquisite.”

“Disposing of the body isn’t aftercare, Boss, and I do most of that.”

“Ugh!”

Her Master grabbed a white strip of cloth from the bamboo chest. She shoved the centre into Seb’s mouth and tied the ends tightly at the base of her skull. “Just until you settle down. That mouth is too pretty—and useful—to bind for long. Stop chattering.” She huffed into Seb’s ear. “ _I need to think_.”

Seb smiled around the gag. She said, “I need to stop thinking,” but it came out a garbled string of sounds and saliva.

Her Master pressed a kiss to Seb’s temple. “And that’s why we’re perfect. Now, hush. And sink, Tiger.”

Seb stood up and let her dress pool around her feet. She kicked it to the side. She looked her Master in the eye and knelt with hands folded behind her back in a U shape. Her Master nodded.

“Good.”

The praise dropped like hot wax on Seb’s bare skin; she bowed her head.

* * *

Seb felt the difference immediately. Now, hands were moving in earnest, with control, precision, purpose. The rope was wrapped around her waist and then knotted up the centre of her chest. It was twined and looped, forming a geometric pattern across her torso, windowing her breasts, and binding her arms to her sides. The ropes were tightened behind her back and knotted. She felt hot breath on her neck and shoulders. The rope was an extension of her Master’s hands, of her entire body, of her mind, of her will, reminding Seb of her status: valued, nay, prized, but owned. It was seduction. It was courtship. It was beautiful—to relax into the rope, peel her mind and body apart, and drift.

There was a moment of stillness. Seb felt her Master’s eyes on her, surveying her work, planning her next move, and then Seb’s legs were being bound, simply and tightly.

A wave of panic hit. Seb fell back on the floor, rolling, pulling against the rope; she gasped loudly as her animal brain fought the confinement.

 _I_ _can’t move. I can’t move._

Then, she stilled. _Let go. You’re okay. She’s got you._

Seb felt hands and breath on her face. Her Master nuzzled her neck, and Seb gave a soft cry. “I’ve got you, Tiger. Let go.” A wet tongue painted the skin outlined by the ropes. Seb settled into her position, and the discomfort and tension abated. “You would make the most beautiful autopsy. Look at you, exposed, bound, mine. Mine to please and take pleasure from. Mine to use as I wish, how I wish. Mine to undo and reassemble in an even more perfect form.”

Then, Seb was on her side, and the tongue moved down her back, around the configuration of knots. It settled on her hip bone, licking back and forth. Fingers found her nipples and pinched them. Seb felt a pillow under her head.  

She sighed and let go.


	2. Moriarty

Despite her earlier words, Moriarty did not consider herself a dominant.

Nor Seb, a submissive.

She?

She was an _artist_.

Seb?

Seb was her _masterpiece_.

Someone once asked a sculptor how he created such life-like figures of elephants from stone; he replied that he chose the stone carefully and simply chipped away everything that was _not_ elephant. So it had been with this girl-tiger, now on the floor, wriggling in vain against the ropes that bound her upper body and feet. Ten years ago, Moriarty had chosen her, a stone in a quarry in the form of a dismal bar where ‘pretentious’ was mistaken for ‘edgy.’ She recognized her instantly.

_Mate._

Moriarty had claimed her and slowly chipped away everything that was _not_ mate. And now, look at her: more than worth the effort, the years.

 _Extraordinary_.

Seb would submit, but she was not a drone. Moriarty had drones, hives of them. Useful, as they went, but ultimately, disposable, fodder for her war machine.

Seb was loyal. Over and over, Moriarty tested her, and she did not waiver.

Seb was a born soldier, made to follow orders, made to launch head-long into danger, made for the dirty work of the trenches.

And, above all, Seb could _think_ —not as well as Moriarty herself, of course—but well enough and quick enough to keep herself alive regardless of the assignment. But she had been thinking for too long this time, and Moriarty would not risk her unravelling. Her work of art needed structure; she needed discipline; she needed resetting; she needed...well, a little quality time with her Creator.

_Time._

As soon as Seb’s arms were tied, a timer was set in Moriarty’s mind, a countdown of how long the girl-tiger could remain in that position and not risk permanent injury, especially if she were on her back, which she would be. Moriarty had found that a simple reward system got her the quickest results. When Seb struggled, she got nothing. When she stilled, she got affection, caresses and endearments.

 _Time for a check-in._ Moriarty removed the gag. She whispered in Seb’s ear, “Who are you?”

“Mmpfph.”

“And who am I?”

“Moriarty.”

Moriarty smiled and binned the gag. All the barriers were down. Now, the girl-tiger was hers.

_Complete surrender. Beautiful._

Moriarty took a deep breath of satisfaction and quickly slid a thick towel under Seb’s bottom because when she dropped, _she dropped_ , losing control of _everything_. Bodily fluids did not disturb Moriarty. _How could they?_ Tears, sweat, and blood were her stock in trade. She snapped on plastic gloves, cleaned Seb quickly, and binned the soiled material. Quite a few mental health professionals—living and dead—would be shocked: Moriarty could be patient, she could be tender. That she had only found one object worthy of either patience or tenderness was of no consequence to her.

Moriarty laced a third rope around Seb’s waist and braided the end, which she slipped between Seb’s legs. She pulled Seb to a seated position, curled and clinging to her, and fixed the rope in the back tightly. Seb whimpered.

“Feels good, Tiger?” Rubbing the braided rope against Seb’s cunt resulted in more whimpering, which only served to stoke Moriarty’s desire. “Yeah, it does. I’d love to be a gentleman and let you come first, but if I do that, that pretty mouth will be useless. And I _need_ it.” Moriarty ached, and her impatience grew. She pulled a chilled bottle of water from the bamboo chest. She wrapped a strong arm around Seb’s drooping torso and held the water to her lips.

“Drink.” Seb opened her mouth, but her lips were clumsy; she coughed and sputtered, dripping water over her chin. “Easy, slow, drink.” Seb took a tiny sip. “Good.” Then, Moriarty eased her on her back, slipping another pillow beneath her head. Moriarty kissed the cold, wet lips. She kissed Seb’s mouth as she had longed to do, as she had dreamt of doing, for weeks. With tongue and teeth and lips, she claimed the girl-tiger over and over. _Mine, mine, mine._ Seb responded immediately, drinking from Moriarty’s mouth as if it bore the source of life. Moriarty slipped off her vest and thrust her nipple into Seb’s mouth. Seb sucked and licked and bit sloppily. Moriarty felt the tendrils of pleasure coil and uncoil inside her. She had been holding herself carefully over Seb so as not to put any added weight on her bound arms, but now she began to roll her hips against Seb’s decorated chest. The heavy belt buckle tripped and tugged on the ropes. “Good, good, Tiger. Now the other one.” She switched breasts. “That’s it, take more, open wider. Good girl.”

When Moriarty stood to remove her jeans, Seb mewled in protest. “Just a second, Tiger. Best is yet to come.” Moriarty settled Seb’s head and neck on the pillows and straddled her, lowering her cunt slowly. Moriarty opened herself, and Seb’s mouth covered her clit.

“Clit first. That’s right, that beautiful mouth. _Oh._ Extraordinary, amazing, fantastic. Now, move.” Moriarty rolled her hips up. “Exactly. So good, so nice. Deeper, deeper, yeah, yeah, right there, right there. My precious Sebby. My regal Tiger.” Moriarty brushed Seb's short hair from her face as she watched the girl-tiger devour her, rocking back and forth into hungry lips. Next, a wide, flat tongue licked broad swipes up her centre, and Moriarty felt the tension build. She leapt off of Seb’s mouth to a plaintive howl.

“Shhh, I don’t want to come on that mouth, Tiger, not this time. I want to come on the rope.” She straddled Seb’s hips and settled her cunt directly over the braided centrepiece. The ropes provided a delicious friction that soon had them both keening. Moriarty rut herself to climax and bit down on Seb’s neck.

“Come here, Tiger.” Moriarty sat up and pulled Seb into her arms. She rubbed between Seb’s legs gently, cupping her cunt over the rope. Seb whimpered anew.

A casual lover would not have felt it, Seb’s orgasm. But Seb would not be having any more casual lovers in this lifetime, Moriarty would make sure of that, even if she had to unleash a global pandemic. Again. Moriarty knew Seb, inside and out. She knew her pulse, her breathing, her temperature, the sounds her mouth made, the sounds her body made, her voluntary and involuntary reactions. The orgasm was quiet, unassuming: a gentle tremor, a soft intake of breath, a faint tightening of the grip around Moriarty’s neck, and... _wait for it_...one single drop of wetness that rolled down Moriarty’s neck to her clavicle.

The tear, the one tear. Moriarty longed to capture every lone tear that had ever rolled down her neck in the last ten years, freeze them, and display them like snowflakes, each unique, each precious.

_Time’s up._

An alarm rang in Moriarty’s head. As she repositioned Seb, her eyes caught something that she had been studiously and purposefully avoiding: the tiger tattoo that decorated Seb’s left shoulder. It was a frustrating distraction, an image that never ceased to provoke. If Moriarty weren’t so agonizingly bewitched, she might consider having it removed surgically, so disturbing was its hold on her. _That night._ The memories shot straight to her groin. The tattoo had been a sort of betrothal gift, if a psychopath-cum-consulting criminal and her hide-bearer could have such a thing for their unconventional union. Moriarty growled and surrendered to animal instinct.

_Mine!_

But the artist feared her work's corruption.

_Quickly, quickly, quickly._

She rolled Seb on her right side, shoved two fingers first deep in her own cunt and then in Seb’s mouth. Seb sucked with abandon as Moriarty licked the entire tattoo and positioned her cunt directly over Seb’s shoulder. With a single rhythm, she fucked herself against the round prominence and pumped her fingers in and out of Seb’s mouth.

The instant Moriarty’s pleasure crested, medical shears cut through the ropes. _Snip, snip, snip._ As strongly as she had desired the girl-tiger bound, now she wanted her free, and she had no patience for untying. Moriarty pulled the ropes away in tangled clumps. She massaged Seb’s arms, hands, and shoulders slowly and gently. She drew two heavy blankets around them.

The reunification of Seb’s body and mind was as messy as the separation. Shivers turned to violent spasms. She retched and coughed into the towel that Moriarty held to her mouth. A green stain bled into the white terrycloth.

“Rinse.” Moriarty held the water bottle to Seb’s lips. Seb drank, swished, and spit into the towel. “Again. Now, breathe. In. Out. In. Out.” Without breaking contact, Moriarty binned the towel. She held Seb tightly until her breathing evened out.

Seb slumped like a rag doll when Moriarty broke the embrace to remove a thermos flask from the bamboo chest. Moriarty pulled her upright again and held a steaming lid-cup of brown liquid to Seb’s lips.

“Drink.” Seb drank, and Moriarty marvelled—not for the first time—at the power of tea and her Sebby. It was like watching the lights of the city come on, building by building, at dusk: the girl-tiger returned to herself. Seb finished the cup and hummed.

_Any idiot can kill, but bringing someone back to life? That takes proper genius._

“Strong Irish tea for my strong Irish girl.”

Seb’s eyes opened, and she said softly, but clearly,

“I’m not Irish. This tea isn’t Irish.”

Moriarty smiled.

“People don’t like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Welcome back, Tiger.”


	3. Seb

Seb settled back into her Master’s embrace. Her eyes scanned the room, taking in the snarls of cut rope around them. Her entire mechanism, body and mind, felt cleaned to a spit-polish shine and oiled to smooth precision. She sighed and rolled her head back.

Her Master drew a Y-incision with her finger along Seb’s torso.“I would cut you open, remove your ribs and internal organs, and bury myself inside you.”

Seb knew it for the declaration of love that it was.

“If I am ever too weak to bear your hides,” answered Seb, turning her head to meet the lips that waited for hers, “you may.” When the kiss broke, a radiant smile greeted Seb. The two remained cocooned in each other, in the blankets, in silence, for some time.

Finally, Seb flexed her muscles and rotated her limbs, noting soreness and sensation. She said, “Thank you. S’good. I’m good.”

“Told you: my aftercare is exquisite.”

Seb huffed.

“Speaking of which, Tiger...”

The tone was unmistakable. _There’s a mess somewhere for me to clean up._ The last sweetness of the encounter evaporated. While the two slowly untangled themselves from each other, the jobbing soldier listened for her assignment. Her Master continued, “We can stay here as long as we’d like, of course, but the proprietor of this estate was so stubbornly _reluctant_ to allow me to lease it for my purposes...”

 _Christ._ “Where’d you put him?”

“In the pond.”

 _Body in a pond, body in a pond._ Seb tapped her lips and looked around her.

“Got any more rope?”

Her Master smiled.

“Plenty.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
